To his right, two older patrons argued about the fine details of the Bloodstone Elves. How shitty they are, mostly, and how much they hate the power they have.

  “I’ve fought alongside the Bloodstone when I was apart… a part of the empire’s own,” the man said with a slur. He wore the hard face of someone who had lived a hard life.

  “You didn’t fight with them, you fought for them. Like fodder. Then, they betrayed the lot by strengthening the Orcs.” The Dwarf huffed, taking a long pull from his tankard. “By the maker’s beard. It’s bad enough we have to live in an alliance with them, the evil bastards.”

  “Aye,” the man stared into his still mug of ale.

  “I think you boys have had enough,” Brianna said, with a stern nod. “We won’t have any more talk of Bloodstone elves, not in the Ogre. You wanna swap stories about elves, talk about the stories of ones in the mountains living in the hidden temples, or the ones in the deep forests.”

  The men grumbled, but obliged the woman. There’s something to be said about the toughness of a woman who runs a tavern doubling as a quest hall in the busiest city of Centrulia.

  “Don’t mind the talk, lad. I’ve lived a long life.” The dwarf tapped his fingers on the bar top. “Just can’t stand an oppressor, it’s not the Dwarvish way, Hell, we fought the Orcs in Thrakkamar so many years ago now.” He stopped, looking slightly embarrassed. “I tend to ramble.”

  Rook looked down at the hardening butter. Elves with blood magic, and griffins, not to mention those who want to kill me. How much worse can it be? He grabbed a cold roll, tearing a piece away, and nodded. “Thanks for the conversation, it was terrifying.”

  “Aye, Yorthon isn’t all Ale and Maidens. Unfortunate as it is, we’ve got a long way to go before that ever happens again.” He stared into his mug and muttered something in a language Rook didn’t understand.

  Rook spun in his stool to face the dwindling crowd of adventurers. The fighting over the high-value quest ceased, leaving a more docile crowd among the general perusers. A woman with two crossbows attached to her wrists pulled a parchment from the bronze section, muttering something about how annoying rats were. The doors to the tavern opened moments later, letting the smell of the Ollar streets in.

  Reina walked in holding the Sentinel Invitation parchment in her hands and a smile on her face. “I reserved a spot for us to train in the dome.” She handed him the paper. “We need to work together, but to do that, I need to see what you can do.”

  The last hand-to-hand combat he had was in the military, which seemed to translate very little here in Yorthon, most likely due to his class. “Let’s go.”

  Walking out into the street, the Ollar people regarded him with sidelong glances, giving him the Ain’t from around here vibes. He wasn’t disheartened; instead, he just felt the strong urge to find a clothing store. “Much as I like these…” Rook stared down at the mismatched beginning armor. “I need something new,” he said with a sigh.

  “Agreed, the brown leathers clash with the red shorts and shoes. Lucky for you, I know just the place on the way.”

  Reina walked across the busy thoroughfare, cutting through an alleyway. He followed her for several minutes, slinking into alleys and across less crowded streets, spearing a path through the blocks until they reached a man with a hawk-like nose, eye patch, and wild black hair. He stood behind a wooden vendor cart, much like what one would see for food or potions.

  “Albert, my friend, needs four sets of clothes. Two for training and the others for leisure.”

  The man regarded Rook and clicked his tongue. “I have just the thing,” he said before crouching down behind the wooden countertop to retrieve something. “Four to start, but once I’m done, I’m sure you’ll be back. They always come back.”

  “See that building?” Reina pointed to a large yellow and white building with a pillared walkway entrance. “It’s the city council.”

  Rook nodded, looking around the scarcely occupied street. “Guess this works.” Rook stared back at the vendor. Sure is taking his time.

  “I’m a mage, I tell you, of style,” Albert said, holding up an outfit in his hands. “This you can sleep in, but it is stylish enough to wear about the town.” He placed the clothes in a neatly folded pile in front of Reina and grabbed another pile. “Black shirt, gray pants, and one pair of black boots. Perfect for the fighting pits, but stylish enough to wear in the town. And applause,” He said with a great sweeping bow.

  Rook was amused. The man would fit into any TV show where they pick out outfits for ne’er-do-wells. “How much?” Rook asked, opening his inventory.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Let’s give you four hundred copper for the lot,” He said, rubbing his hands on his face. “I’ll even let you equip the items in my small tent, for a small ten copper fee.”

  Four hundred copper for four outfits? Rook agreed, buying the clothes and equipping the travel outfit, while storing the others. The dome snuck up on him; he didn’t expect to see it so soon, but Reina knew how to cut a corner. Unlike the Roman Colosseum, there weren’t hundreds of archways making up the exterior. Instead, four entrances where thousands of citizens funneled through. Men and women, some as big as gorillas, warriors with full-length body shields, mages in robes, and those wearing hide armor, all lined up to enter. There was a healing tent right outside the entrance. Two dwarves dressed like laborers carried a litter with a screaming gnome, clutching at a bloody stump where his leg used to be. This can’t be it.

  “Hurry now,” Reina said, dipping between two men in full gold plate armor.

  Rook had to shield his eyes from the glare reflecting off the polished metal. They spoke about him as he passed, and he caught some of the words, weak and small. He glared over his shoulder, and the men frowned back. He wasn’t small by any means; in fact, at over 6’1, he was taller than many of the others in his company. They walked up to the gate where a man sat in a barred shack.

  “State your business?” His cheerful tone betrayed the blunt question.

  “We’re here to train,” Reina said, leaning in towards the bars and presenting the invitation.

  He handed her a ticket, pointed to the left, and looked past them. “Next.”

  “He’s a gem, isn’t he?” Rook asked with a heavy dose of dry humor.

  “It’s just a bit of Ollar charm. You get used to it.”

  Rook watched as people parted to let Reina through. Well, some people do.

  “This is a shortcut.” They trudged up a long marble stairwell, into the lively thrum of a cheering crowd. Two opposing sides chanted and jeered as two fighters in the sandy arena clashed in a screech of metal on metal. Rook fought the urge to cheer as well in the classic Rogue versus Barbarian match-up.

  “Incredible.” Rook gripped a railing, hard enough that his hands shook. The audience erupted into a roar. Rook faced towards the arena and clapped. The rogue crouched and disappeared into nothing, leaving the barbarian roaring and whirling around, waiting for an attack. His hand flew to his lower back as a long strand of blood flew out. The rogue stabbed him while he was invisible. The barbarian jerked his head this way and that, and smiled. The rogue was caught by some of the blood, revealing his location, and the tides turned. Moments later, the warrior clipped the rogue’s leg with a backhanded swing of his axe and followed through with a shield bash to the rogue’s skull that ended the fight.

  Rook caught up to Reina as she walked down to a separate staircase, matching the first one, into a smaller arena. Written on the entry archway were the words Training Grounds. Rook focused on the new surroundings, which were cut into four quadrants of different training styles. Ranged, circles drawn into the dirt for makeshift arenas, barrels of weapons, and dummies littered the place.

  “You have until midday. What you training?” A pale-skinned dwarf said, his muscular arms resting on a protruding stomach.

  He wore a sword on his back, and Rook wasn’t sure he could reach it, even if he wanted to. It made Rook chuckle to himself slightly.

  “You eyeing me, son?” The man asked, his face darkening. “You know who I am?”

  Rook blinked, unsure of how to proceed. Men with his personality want to be heard, like a yapping puppy. But giving the puppy a treat will cause it to stop yapping and warm up to you. “Of course I do. You’re the pitmaster of Ollar, and I came to train with the best.”

  Command presence- Silver Tongued Bastard Activated.

  He softened, growing slightly embarrassed at the compliment. “Then let’s give you the best. I’m Gerald.”

  “Right.” Rook blinked. “So, I’m here to train with my friend,” he said, pointing at Reina, who gave a nervous wave.

  “Councilman’s daughter, eh? Let’s begin with your groundwork,” Gerald said, leading Reina and Rook to the pits.

  Rook’s new boots kicked up sand and gravel as they strode into the area of dedicated circles. Several of the circles were occupied by men and women grappling. I hope this works; hurling a blast of fire or a bolt of lightning is going to level the playing field. But Reina has none of that.

  Rook stared at his partner. “Hey, do you know any offensive spells?”

  “No, I’m an enhancer,” she said, frowning at him. Then she turned away to follow the dwarf, leaving him blinking.

  “Did I say something?” He muttered, then slapped himself for not thinking that she might be feeling inadequate about her own strength. He would have to apologize later.

  “Take your places, and steel yourselves.” He gestured towards a barrel of weapons, then looked at Rook and pointed at the ring to the right. Reina to the left. “You both have one round against a trainer of mine. Wanna get stronger, this is how.”

  They both walked over to the barrel full of wooden training weapons. There were runes etched into the side, glowing with a faint gray.

  “Means light, in runescript. I heard they use these on the wooden weapons in order to mitigate the damage,” Reina said.

  Digging through, Rook decided on one that was a bit different from the rest. “Might as well fix my imperfections with my blunt skill.”

  The weight of the club was indeed light, but felt balanced. The design was thin and just shorter than his arm, like a cousin of the PR-24 baton. It had dark runes written into the wood that seemed as if they should be glowing.

  “It’s an orc club. Some of these weapons were looted, their runes removed and turned into training aids to simulate what fighting against the enemy feels like,” Reina said, holding a thin wooden sword, similar to the rapier she carried around.

  He nodded and glanced down at the club. His mind flashed to the first time he used one to break open a window to save a child. Fuck, that window was hard to break.

  “This is my opponent, Gerald?” A young woman’s voice called, breaking his thought chain. She was slim and walked around eyeing him as if he were today’s bug to be squashed. Her silver, shoulder-length hair was tied behind her head in a braided ponytail, and her confident stride and muscular frame told him that she could handle her business in a fight. Her hair was so strikingly silver for someone so young.

  “Let’s go then.” She strode forward, taking a club.

  Did we start yet? He looked at Gerald, scowling as he studied both arenas. He glanced at Reina, scrambling to her feet, and her whole back was covered in the arena dirt. Her weapon lay in the dirt at least ten feet away.

  “Pay attention, boy,” the woman growled in her loose, undefensive stance.

  “Huh?” Rook turned to get a white explosion of pain in his nose and eyes. “Fuck.” He knew better than to drop his weapon, and it took a second for his calming analytical side to take over for battle.

  “Fuck is right.” She spat on the ground and shook her head.

  Action?Horror Progression Infinity / Unlimited Flow Grimdark

  The Tartarus Trials [A Grimdark Infinity Serial]

  Wits buy powers in a cycle of flesh?ripping missions.

  Waylen is a warehouse worker used to gritting his teeth through miserable shifts, making do with whatever crumbs management throws him. That grit is pushed to the breaking point when he wakes up in a clinically white room with five strangers, no phone signal, and a message on the wall: complete the mission in two hours or die.

  outlast, outthink, and outplay a homicidal nightmare, turning terror into leverage and blood into bargaining chips. But escaping the mansion may only be the first trial… and the price of freedom could be infinitely worse.

  [Mission Log: Initial Deployment]

  "The pop?up on the wall didn’t blink. It didn’t explain. It just ticked down, second by second, while five strangers screamed accusations across a room with no doors. Waylen had spent years breaking his back for pennies. Now the universe wanted to see how much grit that bought him… with something in the dark laughing every time they argued."

  ? Fast?Paced Action?Horror?Thriller: Missions on a timer; no filler.

  ? Progression After Mission One: Infinity / Unlimited Flow flavor.

  ? Smart, Earned Growth: Waylen climbs from Normal to Strong through grit and craftiness.

  ? Buy Your Powers: Magic and sci?fi abilities/items can be purchased as the Trials unfold.

  ? Dark, Gritty Survival: Victories are won second by second, wound by wound.

  ? Myriad Missions: New threats, new rules, escalating terror each round.

  Content Warning: Grimdark themes, graphic violence, and profanity. Reader discretion advised.

  Schedule: 3 chapters a week – Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday (by 1:00 PM EDT / GMT?4).